


Dirty Little Pop Song

by nerdqueenmari



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Modern AUs, it's mostly just unapologetic smut, not gonna get into the background of this, so please enjoy this sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdqueenmari/pseuds/nerdqueenmari
Summary: Shower fantasies lead to an impatient tumble in bed.





	Dirty Little Pop Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broadside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadside/gifts).



> Based on an AU from tumblr RP; immortal Hector ends up having to go on a Road Trip to find a Macguffin with reincarnated Miss Swann (who is thirsty). Title is from an Aqua song of the same name.

She will deny it to her grave. She will swear up and down that there’s nothing to it, that she just enjoys arguing with him. If asked, she will say that her insistence on engaging him is due to boredom, not any inherent interest in him personally. Likewise, if challenged on the matter, she would say he has absolutely nothing to do with where her mind has wandered. Or her hand.

When they stopped for the night and got a hotel room, she practically threw herself into the shower, and she’s been in there probably far too long by now. She’s hoping he left to go eat or something. Sort of. There’s a small part of her that hopes he hasn’t, too. A tiny little sliver that’s been intrigued and attracted and low-key horny for the whole damn uncomfortable afternoon on the road. That part, the part she’s let surface more than she like to admit today, is hoping that he hasn’t left. Hoping that he’s waiting in the room for her to exit - preferably with no pants.

If anyone were to suggest that any part of her wanted him, she would be forced to lie through her teeth. She would have to say that her fingers have been following the rivulets of water down her body for completely unrelated reasons.

It’s a fucking lie.

There’s a larger-than-tiny part of her that is thinking very intently about what having his hands on her body and his mouth on her lips would feel like. She wanted him when she saw him in that part, not that she knew it then. She certainly knows it now. This isn’t the first time she’s found herself fighting erotic thoughts about his stupid face.

It is the first time she’s given in to them. The first time her fingers have slid between her legs, and she’s let out a sigh that she’s grateful is swallowed by the running water she’s standing under, and it’s because of the thought of him. Normally, she would take her time, run a bath. She’d spend long moments exploring herself. This time, it’s fast. Her fingers are dancing on her clit, and she’s trying to make sure she remains standing up, because her legs desperately want to give out.

She steps out of the shower, flings open the door, strolls out into the hotel room with water still dripping off her and not a care about it. The next bit is a blur. All that registers is the complete lack of resistance as she pushes him onto the bed, and then she’s over him, and his face is exactly where it ought to be: between her legs.

Her breath is coming in shallow, open-mouthed pants. She’s trying not to let him know that she would probably say yes to just about anything right now, and she hates it, but -  _ god _ , he’s good with that tongue.

“Ah…!” A single, not-exactly-quiet moan escapes her dry lips, and the orgasm hits her like a bus. She sinks to her knees in the shower, gasping for air as she returns to reality. Half of her is desperate that he not know, that he absolutely never find out that she jumped in the shower just to fantasize about him. The other half is now willing to admit she wants him, and that she sort of hopes he heard. Hopes he heard and comes banging in to push her against the wall and-

“Fuck,” she breathes. Her hands have not moved, and her fingers have not  _ stopped _ moving. Her mind has her slammed against the wall, one leg crooked behind him, one of his hands rough on her hips, likely to leave a bruise from the strength with which his fingers are digging into her skin - yes,  _ yes, please _ , she’s absolutely lost at the thought of looking down in the morning and knowing immediately that they finally claimed each other.

She’s imagining his teeth on her neck - and his beard, she’s always hated fucking a guy with facial hair, but somehow his doesn’t bother her. She’s leaned back against the side of the tub, indifferent to the pounding water, and it’s safe to say that even if she weren’t in the shower, her hands would still be just as wet.

A second, harder orgasm strikes without warning. Toes curl beneath her and she rides a wave of pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. Tight muscles release, and she takes a moment to recover her breath, to pull herself to her feet. She turns the shower off still in a post-orgasm daze.

It won’t do to let him guess what she’s been doing. She takes time to calm her breathing, before she steps out of the tub and reaches for a towel. She’s composed, her face once again a pretty mask by the time she leaves the bathroom, wearing pajamas and casually toweling her hair dry.

* * *

It must be at least two in the morning, and she can’t stand it. She’s been lying here for hours, trying to fall asleep, and she can’t. Despite herself, she can’t get her mind off him and it pisses her off to no end, because it’s been leading up to this for almost… She pauses to count, and it gets her mind off of certain lurid topics for a brief second. Twenty-three days, since she met him in that bar. And not a single one of those days has she  _ not _ thought that she would absolutely tap that.

There’s a draw she can’t explain, a magnetism she cannot put her finger on no matter how much she tries, and she hates it, and she just can’t fucking stand it. She opens her mouth to squint at the generic alarm clock on the bedside table. Two sixteen. Two sixteen in the morning, and she’s laying here trying to convince herself she’s not an absolute hussy. Two sixteen and she just doesn’t give a fuck about it.

She looks over at the other bed, not that she can see anything in the dark, but she knows he’s lying there, mere feet away, and she desperately, desperately,  _ desperately _ , more than she can say, wants to touch him. She can’t. Take it anymore.

She slides out of bed, tries to focus on the sensation of her feet touching the floor, rather than on where said feet are taking her. Which of course, is to the other bed. She’s deliberately  _ not thinking _ about how he might react, as she climbs into his bed, sliding under the covers to lay next to him, ignoring the beat that her heart skips when their skin makes contact.

She tries to play it cool, really she does. She tries to just. Lie there. Listen to him breathe. Lean against him, close her eyes, fall asleep. She tries, and fails miserably. In seconds, she’s pressed up to him, and she’s vaguely aware that he’s awake, because  _ of course  _ he is, but she presses her mouth to his, one hand gripping the collar of the shirt he probably didn’t want to wear to bed but that she’s insisted on for the last twenty-two nights.

She breaks the kiss away long enough to confirm that, yes, he is indeed awake, and yes, he has indeed returned the kiss, and to say just three words, words that have been bouncing around her head for days. “Fuck me already.”

The response is almost instantaneous.

The kiss doesn’t remain broken for more than a few seconds after the words escape her lips. He was initially returning the kiss, yes - but this is more than just a return. Her breath catches; she’s actually surprised by the passion with which he’s kissing her, but, not to be bested, it doesn’t take long before she’s snaking her fingers into his hair. She thinks to roll him over and climb on top of him, but he is having exactly none of that, and resists her nudge in that direction.

She tries to break the kiss to protest, but before she can, he’s started to unbutton her top, and all she can think is,  _ Fucking finally! _ She lets his face go - she’s been holding it in her hands, but this is more important - and starts to help him. She only manages a few buttons herself before their hands meet, and she’s struggling to toss the silk shirt anywhere but here. He’s moved his mouth from her lips to her neck, and she just breathes a single word, “Fuck,” with no indication of if it’s bad or not.

Both, one might guess. Her neck is a weak spot, but she doesn’t ever recall being  _ quite _ so easily silenced with a well-placed nip. Because, of course, he’s not just kissing her neck, he’s biting and sucking, and she is certain that she’ll have nasty purple marks all over her neck in the morning, and she doesn’t recall ever wanting anything more.

She’s gotten rid of her top; his t-shirt has followed very shortly; the sheets are a vague memory of moments past. She tries again to sit up, to prove that she’s just as much in control, but he has other plans, and she is absolutely not in control on any level.

He starts to move down her body, and she can’t stay still, because she can guess what’s coming next, and she both wants it, and at the same knows that she’ll be setting a dangerous precedent by giving in so easily. The conflict is titillating and infuriating - which, when it comes down to it, seems like an absolutely accurate description of their relationship so far.

He gets to the waist of her pajamas - he passed her breasts completely despite a rather transparent attempt to entice his attention there. With her lifting her hips from the mattress, the silk shorts are gone in an instant, flung somewhere across the room without a single fuck given where they end up. A little part of her wants to be irritated that she’s so eager for his touch, but a much larger part is content to just enjoy it when his head nearly disappears between her legs.

She could smack herself for the breathy whisper of, “Oh, god,  _ yes _ ,” that escapes her as his mouth makes contact. If her mind weren’t quickly overtaken by pleasure, she might find herself wondering why she’d waited weeks for this. Instead, she’s left writhing on the bed, one hand grasping pointlessly at the mattress, the other with a fistful of wiry red hair in its grip. There is nothing gentle, or even nice about her touch; likewise, one would never describe the way his mouth is assaulting her as anything short of aggressive. This is by no means an intimate act of making love, this is absolutely, 100%, without a doubt, angry fucking, and it’s what she’s been thinking about since they met, and finally, now, when she’s on her back beneath him, and he’s introduced a couple of fingers into the equation, she can admit it.

She lets herself be lost in the moment, which is a first. She’s not a virgin, she’s not even particularly innocent, but she has never before let anyone completely consume her thoughts, no matter how talented a tongue they might possess. It’s a very different experience, surrendering to the red hot, almost feral passion that’s gripped both of them.

When she cums, it’s a legitimate surprise, and she has just enough of herself left as it strikes her to shove two knuckles into her mouth, stifling the not-at-all-subtle announcement that she’s definitely enjoying this. She may be splayed on his bed, but damned if she’s going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her whimper his name like some shameless hussy.

She could swear that he gives a little chuckle as he kisses and bites a line back up her torso. This time, he stops to give one of her nipples a cursory nip before moving north, and her mouth is open in protest when his lips reach hers again.

Any other time, she would insist,  _ hell no, I am not kissing you _ , but not this time. She’s too caught up in the moment to consider where his mouth has been, which is just as well, because the objection she would raise otherwise would completely spoil the moment. She lets his lips claim hers without even a second’s complaint, and she finds her arms sliding around his neck, and she thinks,  _ This is heaven _ .

He grabs her hips, his fingers just as rough on her skin as she imagined in the shower, and she’s vaguely aware of his closing the distance between their bodies.

“Hector--”

It crosses her mind, not for the first time, that his name is absolutely outdated and beyond a little ridiculous. And then that thought is shoved quickly aside.

One of her hands grabs desperately for an anchor, finds his shoulder. She digs her nails in without remorse, because that’s exactly how he’s going to fuck her. She wouldn’t have it any other way. Her head bumps the wall with one of his thrusts, and it’s all she can manage to grab one of the shitty hotel pillows and shove it between her skull and the wall. She’s not about to ask him to take it easy.

She’s completely lost in the sensations. Her mind is a swirl of almost animal lust, and she’s at once disgusted and lost in it. There’s something particularly salient about knowing that she ought to be literally  _ anywhere _ other than tangled in him as he fucks her silly like she just really hopes he’s wanted to for weeks.

Time is both dragging and moving too quickly. She isn’t so much aware of the situation as she is aware of the things happening to her body; her own soft gasps of encouragement, the heat radiating from them both, the absolute wanton greed with which she’s lifting her hips to meet him - and then the little purrs of satisfaction when she can feel him inside of her.

Too soon, his grip on her is tightening, and his rough thrusts against her body are becoming harder still. She’s completely given up on matching his movement. It’s his show now, and she’s along for the ride, although admittedly she is enjoying it more than the average passive observer. He suddenly bites her neck viciously, and she feels her muscles tighten. There’s nothing she can do to hold back the staccato moan that escapes her mouth.

Another orgasm wracks her body mercilessly, and she’s pulling him in, won’t let him go, and her voice has faded out into a wordless gasp while her fingers dig into his flesh like they intend to draw blood. Inner muscles are clenching around him, and she guesses by the half-groan he gives while clearly trying to hold it back, that he’s joining her on the next plane.

There are a few more cursory thrusts as she carefully releases him, unwraps her legs from his hips. He lingers a moment, and she takes the opportunity to draw his face down to meet hers for a languid kiss. This time, she’s not the only one lost in it. Her fingers trail lightly across the back of his neck, his arms wrap around her back so he can pull her in, and she drifts off to her first peaceful sleep in weeks.

Regrets will come in the morning, she has no doubt. But for now? Just sleepy satisfaction.


End file.
